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MOELEY 


Biographical 
Sketch 


DOUBLEDAY 
PAGE  £  CO. 


Phuto  by  Charles  11.  JJuvi 


CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY 


Christopher 

/^  y  -*- 

Morley 


j  History  done  by  divers  hands, 
together  with  a  list  of  works  by 
this  author  y  thus  modestly  offered 
to  your  attention 


Printed  at  Garden  City,  New  York,  at  The 
Country  Life  Press,  by 

pOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  CO'Y 

/f  1922 


LOAN  STACK 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
DOUBLEDAY,  ?AGE    &    COMPANY 


Christopher 
Morley 


THERE  are  in  this 
country  and  in  Eng 
land  a  few  copies  of  a 
slender  blue-gray  book 
let  of  verses  (long  since 
out  of  print)  with  the 
title  "The  Eighth  Sin" 
on  the  cover  in  large 
black  letters,  and  be 
neath  it  in  smaller  letters,  modestly,  the  name  C.  D.  Morley. 
They  who  own  this  little  book  prize  it  highly,  not  because  it 
is  great  poetry  (the  author  would  be  the  first  to  deny  it)  but 
because  it  is  the  maiden  effort  of  one  Christopher  Darling 
ton  Morley. 

This  Christopher  Morley,  known  also  as  Kit  and  Chris, 
was  born  at  Haverford,  Pennsylvania,  May  5,  1890.  His 
parents  are  both  English  by  birth,  though  they  have  lived 
for  many  years  in  this  country.  His  father,  Frank  Morley, 
the  distinguished  mathematician,  is  a  graduate  of  Cambridge 
University  who  came  to  Haverford  College  in  1887  as 
professor  of  mathematics.  Dr.  Morley,  an  English  Quaker, 
came  from  Woodbridge,  the  lovely  little  town  in  Suffolk 
(the  home  of  Edward  FitzGerald)  to  which  his  son  has  paid 
tribute  in  "Shandygaff."  From  his  mother  also,  Chris 
topher  undoubtedly  derived  his  quota  of  imagination  and 
literary  tastes:  she  is  a  gifted  musician,  a  poet,  and  (her 
son  never  fails  to  add)  a  fine  cook.  And  her  father  was 
at  one  time  associated  with  the  famous  London  publishing 
house  of  Chapman  and  Hall. 

068 


So  the  formative  years  of  Christopher  Morley's  life  were 
spent  under  the  shadow  of  college  buildings  and  in  the  gentle 
atmosphere  of  good  books  and  cultured  people.  On  the 
campus  of  Haverford  College,  a  place  of  unique  and  quiet 
beauty,  he  lived  until  he  was  ten  years  old.  This  small 
Quaker  college  is  unique  among  American  institutions  in  its 
Anglo-American  flavor.  When  its  grounds  were  laid  out, 
ninety  years  ago,  by  an  English  landscape  gardener,  he  in 
troduced  cricket  among  the  students,  and  Haverford  College 
has  been  the  shrine  of  that  game  in  America.  For  many 
years  the  college  made  a  point  of  having  one  or  more  dis 
tinguished  Englishmen  on  its  faculty— perhaps  with  the 
characteristic  Quaker  intention  of  promoting  international 
friendship.  Every  four  years  the  college  sent  its  cricket 
team  abroad  to  spend  the  summer  playing  matches  with  the 
English  colleges.  This  influence  is  worth  noting,  for  this, 
and  several  summer  vacations  spent  in  England  during  child 
hood,  undoubtedly  did  much  to  promote  in  the  young  Morley 
his  unusual  blend  of  both  civilizations.  Ardent  American 
as  he  is,  he  likes  to  think  of  America  and  England  as  two 
halves  of  the  same  idea,  and  speaks  of  his  childhood  as  "an 
Anglo-American  capsule." 

In  1900  Professor  Morley  moved  to  Baltimore  to  take 
the  chair  of  pure  mathematics  at  Johns  Hopkins,  which  he 
still  occupies.  In  that  fascinating  Southern  city  Christopher's 
school  days  were  spent,  and  he  returned  to  Haverford  in 
1906  as  an  undergraduate.  He  graduated  from  the  college 
in  1910.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  the  subject  of  his 
baccalaureate  thesis  was  Robert  Louis  Stevenson;  and  the 
files  of  The  Haverfordian,  the  student  literary  magazine, 
show  some  entertaining  boyish  outpourings,  both  in  prose 
and  in  verse.  There  were  some  stories  dealing  with  the  mis 
adventures  of  an  Irish  housemaid  which  show  a  curious 
anticipation  of  that  vein  of  domestic  comedy  he  has  developed 
since. 


In  1910  he  was  awarded  the  Rhodes  Scholarship  to 
Oxford,  representing  Maryland,  and  the  next  three  years 
were  spent  at  New  College.  It  was  here  that  "The  Eighth 
Sin"  was  committed.  Morley  likes  to  recall  the  comment 
of  Mr.  Herbert  Fisher,  his  tutor  at  New  College,  on  read 
ing  that  juvenile  pamphlet.  "The  chief  advantage  of  writ 
ing  verse  in  youth,"  said  Mr.  Fisher,  "is  that  it  improves 
one's  prose  style  in  old  age." 

Morley  has  not  written  very  much,  in  a  formal  way  at 
least,  about  his  Oxford  adventure.     Like  almost  all  young 
Oxonians  with  literary  instinct,  he  once  projected  an  Oxford 
novel,  and  wrote  several  chapters  before  it  went  into  his 
trunk  of  postponed  schemes,  to  share  a  corner  with  the  un 
successful  poem  submitted  in  1913  for  the  famous  Newdigate 
Prize   (the  subject  set  for  the  Newdigate  Poem  that  year 
happened  to  be  "Oxford").     One  gathers  that  the  beauty 
and  hilarity  of  that  experience,  in  the  last  days  of  a  world 
that  can  never  come  again — pre-War  England— lie  rather 
too  close   to   the   heart   for   casual   journalism.     But   in   a 
recent  poem    ("Parsons'   Pleasure" — the  name   of   the   old 
bathing  pool  on  the  Cherwell   at  Oxford)    we  find  these 
lines- 
Two  breeding-places  I  have  known 
Where  germinal  my  heart  was  sown; 
Two  places  from  which  I  inherit 
The  present  business  of  my  spirit: 
Haverford,  Oxford,  quietly 
May  make  a  poet  out  of  me. 

And  between  the  lines  in  some  earlier  poems,  as  also  in  "Kath 
leen,"  his  light-hearted  novelette  of  an  Oxford  undergrad 
uate  prank,  one  may  discern  something  of  the  flavor  of  that 
interlude. 

In  the  summer  of  1913  he  returned  to  America,  and — 
we  out  here  like  to  remember— came  to  Garden  City  to  ask 
Mr.  F.  N.  Doubleday  ("Effendi")  for  a  job. 


"I  remember,  as  though  it  were  an  hour  ago,  the  first  time 
I  ever  saw  Christopher  Morley,"  says  Mr.  Doubleday.  "He 
accepted  an  invitation  to  come  into  my  office  and  discuss 
the  burning  subject  he  had  so  much  on  his  mind,  namely — 
a  job. 

"He  told  me  of  his  career  from  boyhood  to  very  early 
manhood,  and  he  was  delightfully  young  with  an  enthusiasm 
which  was  very  appealing.  The  high  points  in  his  career 
including  his  earning  the  Rhodes  Scholarship  and  serving 
his  term,  as  I  remember  it,  in  New  College,  Oxford.  Chris 
topher  had  now  returned  home  to  earn  his  living  and  he 
thought,  as  others  have,  that  the  most  delightful  way  would 
be  to  become  part  of  a  publishing  house,  and  Garden  City, 
he  added,  looked  good  to  him.  I  gave  him  the  usual  bromidic 
phrases  about  the  difficulties  of  the  publishing  business,  add 
ing  that  he  would  make  more  money  as  a  bond  salesman  or 
in  a  banking  house,  and  that  fortunes  were  as  rare  in  Garden 
City  as  they  were  plentiful  in  Wall  Street. 

"With  this  sort  of  conversation  about  banks  and  bankers 
he  had  small  interest  which  he  made  quite  obvious  as  he 
repeated  again,  'I  want  a  job,  and  I  want  it  here  and  I  hope 
right  now/  not  with  the  air  of  a  life  insurance  agent  but 
with  the  eagerness  of  a  thirsty  soul  with  refreshment  in  sight. 

"To  get  a  breathing  space  I  asked  him  if  he  had  any  plans 
along  book  lines  on  which  a  modest  publisher  could  make  a 
few  stray  dollars.  This  was  indeed  an  opening.  Morley 
immediately  dove  into  a  deep  pocket  and  produced  a  large 
number  of  papers  on  which  were  worked  out  books  and 
plans  for  series  of  books  in  vast  array — names  of  authors  in 
ample  numbers  who  have  had  beyond  the  shadow  of  doubt 
the  divine  fire,  and  I  confess  I  found  his  enthusiasm  most 
contagious. 

"To  gain  time  again,  I  suggested  that  to  work  out  all 
these  schemes  would  almost  break  the  Chemical  Bank  and 
I  attempted  to  show  him  how  expensive  it  was  to  make  a 


whole  series  of  books — 

but  again  I  failed  to  keep 

his  interest.     He  had  it 

in    his    mind    evidently 

that  he  had  come  to  a 

publisher  to  talk  books, 

not    finance — a    subject 

which,  so  far  as  I  have 

been  able  to  see,  Morley 

found  rather  boring  then 

and  since. 

"And    so    his    pictur 
esque    talk    went    on — 

Christopher  full  of  en 
thusiasm  and  hope  for  a 

vast  collection  of  plans 
and  the  publisher  cautious  and  mildly  non-committal.  Finally 
I  said  to  him,  'You  would  have  to  be  about  ten  men  to  suc 
cessfully  carry  out  all  these  plans;  now  if  you  had  your 
choice  of  any  job  in  the  place  what  would  you  choose?' 
Without  a  second's  hesitation  he  said,  'Yours.' 

"Being  a  little  weighted  down  that  morning  with  the 
difficulties  of  the  job  which  the  President  of  Doubleday, 
Page  &  Company  takes  as  a  daily  routine,  the  idea  much 
appealed  to  me  and  I  felt  that  any  youngster  who  was  so 
eager  to  assume  the  burden  of  a  somewhat  complicated  life 
might  be  encouraged.  So  I  told  him  to  hang  up  his  coat 
and  hat,  put  him  at  a  desk,  and  told  him  to  go  to  work  at  all 
his  manifold  plans  and  literary  philanderings,  reserving  the 
right  to  restrain  his  commitments  if  necessary. 

"An  amusing  incident  happened  which  I  did  not  know 
of  until  afterwards.  It  seems  that  he  had  interviewed  an 
other  officer  of  the  company  before  he  had  seen  me,  and  was 
told  in  reply  to  an  insistent  demand  that  there  was  no  job 
for  him  and  that  he  had  best  go  back  to  New  York.  When 


8 

this  would-be  employer  returned  a  few  hours  later  he  was 
rather  surprised  to  see  Christopher  installed  in  the  'job'  and 
going  strong. 

"This  was,  so  far  as  I  know,  the  beginning  of  Morley's 
connection  with  the  editorial  and  publishing  life.  I  always 
enjoyed  his  association  with  the  house.  He  had  one  point 
especially  I  remember  and  that  was  that  when  he  had  an 
enthusiasm  for  a  book  and  an  author  he  would  never  let 
you  forget  it.  I  give  him  credit  for  his  early  discovery  of 
the  merits  of  Mr.  William  McFee's  work.  We  were  ac 
customed  to  hold  what  we  called  a  'book-meeting,'  when  each 
member  of  the  staff  gave  his  suggestion  about  authors  and 
books.  For  months  when  it  came  Christopher's  turn  to 
speak  he  always  began,  'Now,  about  McFee — we  don't  ap 
preciate  what  a  comer  he  is'  and  so  on  for  five  minutes  with 
out  taking  breath  until  finally  it  became  the  joke  of  the 
meeting  that  nothing  could  be  done  until  Morley's  McFee 
speech  had  been  made.  Our  jibes  influenced  him  not  at  all. 
His  only  reply  to  our  efforts  in  humor  being  to  bring  on  a 
look  of  great  seriousness  and  the  eternal  phrase,  'Now,  about 
McFee.' 

"The  writer  claims  to  have  some  knowledge  and  appre 
ciation  of  Mr.  McFee  but  if  he  had  the  power  for  which 
Morley  gave  him  credit,  the  sailorman's  works  would  sell 
like  Shakespeare  and  be  translated  into  the  tongues  of  all 
nations  to  the  nethermost  parts  of  the  earth. 

"Those  were  pleasant  days  and  even  now  to  get  a  regular 
Morley  letter — and  they  often  run  to  many  pages — is  a 
literary  treat  tempered  with  regret  that  one  must  fall  so 
greatly  below  the  ideal  Morley  has  in  his  vision  of  what  a 
real  publisher  should  do  and  feel." 

Besides  his  discovery  of  McFee  there  were  two  other  im 
portant  events  during  Morley's  sojourn  of  nearly  four  years 
at  Garden  City.  He  married  Miss  Helen  Booth  Fairchild, 
a  New  York  girl  whom  he  had  met  in  England,  and  he 


wrote  his  first  novel,  "Parnassus  on  Wheels."  From  this 
time  forward  the  story  of  his  life  is  the  story  of  his  work. 
So  completely  are  they  bound  together  that  he  hardly  dis 
tinguishes  them  himself. 

Successively  (and  successfully)  he  has  held  position  on 
The  Ladies'  Home  Journal  (there  are  eyewitnesses  to  this), 
when  he  described  himself  as  one  of  "the  little  group  of 
wilful  men  who  edit  the  Ladies'  Home  Journal''  the  Phila 
delphia  Evening  Ledger,  and,  since  1920,  on  the  New  York 
Evening  Post  where  he  gives  life  to  an  editorial-page  column 
which  sails  under  the  name  of  "The  Bowling  Green." 

His  work  in  "The  Bowling  Green"  is  characteristic  of 
his  work  elsewhere.  Light  and  merry  (as,  of  course,  he 
should  be)  he  never  forgets  the  high  responsibility  which 
attends  (or  should  attend)  every  position  in  which  one  sets 
down  the  printed  word  that  all  may  read.  The  "Green" 
is  playful  and  informal,  but  serious  withal,  and  when  the 
skipper  nails  his  flag  to  the  mast  and  bursts  into  a  defense 
of  something  he  thinks  right  it  makes  no  difference  what 
you  or  I,  Tom,  Dick,  Harry,  Harold,  or  Percival,  think  of 
it,  he  stands  by  the  flag. 

"Parnassus  on  Wheels,"  published  in  1917,  projected  a 
new  hero  in  the  world  of  letters,  Roger  Mifflin,  the  Prince 
of  Booksellers,  a  quaint,  shrewd,  funny  little  bald-headed 
prince,  but  royal  all  the  same,  and  it  introduced  a  new  idea 
into  the  world  of  reality,  that  of  the  wagon  bookshop,  which 
has  since  been  carried  out  in  various  ways  in  many  parts  of 
the  country. 

"Lord!"  cries  Roger  (there  are  times  when  we  almost 
forget  and  call  him  Christopher)  "when  you  sell  a  man  a 
book  you  don't  sell  him  just  twelve  ounces  of  paper  and  ink 
and  glue — you  sell  him  a  whole  new  life.  Love  and  friend 
ship  and  humor  and  ships  at  sea  by  night — there's  all  heaven 
and  earth  in  a  book,  a  real  book,  I  mean."  Farther  on  in 
the  same  volume  Mr.  Morley  says  "a  good  book,  like  Eve, 


10 

ought  to  come  from  somewhere  near  the  third  rib:  there 
ought  to  be  a  heart  vibrating  in  it."  This  might  be  called 
Morley's  credo.  There  is  a  heart  in  every  one  of  his  books 
— and  the  heart  is  his. 

Roger  Mifflin  exhilarates  the  pages  of  another  novel — he 
deserves  to  continue  through  many  more — "The  Haunted 
Bookshop."  In  this  he  has  settled  down  in  Brooklyn,  and 
in  addition  to  selling  books,  is  gravely  concerned  with  the 
education  of  that  very  delightful  young  lady,  Titania. 

Between  "Parnassus  on  Wheels"  and  "The  Haunted 
Bookshop"  came  two  other  books,  "Songs  for  a  Little 
House,"  a  sheaf  of  gay  and  tender  lyrics  for  households  of 
two  or  more,  and  "Shandygaff,"  a  collection  of  essays. 

"Shandygaff"  appeared  at  a  time  when  there  was  a  lament 
abroad  that  essay,  like  letter  writing,  was  a  lost  art.  But 
the  people  drank  Mr.  Morley's  decoction,  found  it  good  to 
the  tongue,  and  begged  for  more.  The  flagging  interest 
in  essays  and  their  authors  sprang  to  life,  and  to-day  Morley 
is  perhaps  more  widely  known  for  his  essays  than  for  his 
poems,  his  novels,  or  his  short  stories. 

"Dear  Burnet,"  wrote  Don  Marquis  to  Dana  Burnet  a  few 
weeks  after  the  publication  of  "Shandygaff,"  "I  wish,  while  I 
am  away  from  the  office  and  you  are  running  the  Sun  Dial, 
that  you  would  say  something  in  it  about  Christopher  Mor 
ley's  book,  'Shandygaff,'  just  published  by  Doubleday,  Page  & 
Co.  It  is  altogether  the  most  delightful  thing  I  have  got  my 
clutches  on  for  a  long  time.  But  I  would  scarcely  dare  say  so, 
while  I  was  running  the  column,  because  one  of  the  chapters 
of  the  book  is  an  appreciation  of  me— a  wonderful  chapter. 
.  .  .  and  all  the  others  are  nearly  as  good.  .  .  ." 

Luscious  titles  have  Morley's  books  of  essays,  "Shandy 
gaff,"  "Mince  Pie,"  "Plum  Pudding,"  and  "Pipefuls."  There 
is  one  called  "Travels  in  Philadelphia,"  a  series  of  little 
excursions  about  town  which  made  many  others  besides  Mr. 
A.  Edward  Newton  bemoan  the  time  when  Chris  Morley 


"shook  the  dust  of  that  city  from  his  ample  feet  to  come  to 
New  York." 

In  1921,  nine  years  after  "The  Eighth  Sin"  first  emerged 
upon  the  public,  the  George  H.  Doran  Company  issued  a 
beautiful  volume  called  "Chimneysmoke."  It  is  a  repre 
sentative  selection  from  Morley's  earlier  books  of  poems, 
"Songs  for  a  Little  House,"  "The  Rocking  Horse,"  and 
"Hide  and  Seek/'  The  poems  are  not  primarily  written  for 
children,  but  children  adore  them.  One  of  the  most  touch 
ing  tributes  of  the  many  that  have  come  to  the  author  is  the 
bundle  of  letters  (constantly  added  to)  which  small  boys  and 
girls  have  written  him  because  they  have  read  and  loved 
the  songs.  Most  of  these  verses  celebrate  the  joys  and 
humors  of  domesticity,  and  Mr.  Morley  makes  one  believe 
that  the  most  desirable,  the  most  indispensable,  the  most  per 
fect  thing  on  earth  is  a  house — preferably  a  little  one — with 
a  wife  and  children  inside.  If  real  estate  agents  would  scatter 
copies  of  "Chimneysmoke"  abroad  over  the  country  they 
could  dispense  with  advertising,  so  thoroughly  do  his  lines 

"abide  for  proof 
Joy  dwells  beneath  a  humble  roof." 

Mr.  Morley  feels  deeply  that  the  home  offers  a  theme 
for  the  Muse  that  need  not  be  merely  saccharine  in  senti 
ment.  There  are  some  poets,  he  has  remarked,  "who  deal 
with  homely  topics,  and  make  them  homelier  still."  Mr. 
Vincent  O'Sullivan,  a  penetrating  critic,  traced  the  inspira 
tion  of  Morley's  domestic  lyrics  to  "the  English  intimists, 
Herrick,  George  Herbert,  Cowper,  Crabbe."  Indeed,  though 
we  do  not  find  Mr.  Morley  so  candid  as  the  Devonshire 
parson  in  some  matters,  there  is  undoubtedly  a  kinship  with 
the  Herrick  who  wrote  the  "Thanksgiving  for  His  House" — 

"A   little   house,   whose   humble   roof 

Is  weather-proof; 
Under  the  sparres  of  which  I  lie 

Both  soft,  and  drie" 


12 

and  also  with  the  religious  mysticism  of  Herbert.  And  a 
poem  such  as  Mr.  Morley's  "At  the  Mermaid  Cafeteria" 
(in  "Chimneysmoke")  is  a  direct  throw-back  to  the  mood 
of  Elizabethan  and  Caroline  poets.  Our  author's  Eliza 
bethan-sounding  name  has  perhaps  exerted  a  subconscious 
influence.  No  less  a  critic  than  Mr.  E.  V.  Lucas,  writing 
an  introduction  for  the  English  edition  of  "Chimneysmoke," 
says : — 

"Here  he  is  established  without  a  rival,  on  his  own  ground,  as 
the  poet  of  the  home.  Domesticity  has  had  many  celebrants,  but 
I  cannot  remember  any  one  work  in  which  such  a  number  of  the 
expressions  of  Everyman,  in  his  capacity  as  householder,  husband 
and  father,  have  been  touched  upon,  and  touched  upon  so  happily 
and  with  such  deep  and  simple  sincerity.  The  poet  of  The  Angel 
in  the  House  was,  I  suppose,  a  predecessor;  but  Coventry  Patmore 
was  a  mystic  and  a  rhapsodist,  whereas  Mr.  Morley  keeps  on  a 
more  normal  plane  and  puts  in  verse,  thoughts  and  feelings  and 
excitements  that  most  of  us  have  known  but  have  lacked  the  skill 
or  will  to  epigrammatise.  If  we  are  to  look  in  literature  for  a 
kindred  spirit  to  Mr.  Morley's  we  find  it  rather  in  the  author  of 
The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night.  But  Mr.  Morley  is  at  once  more 
modern  and  more  modest.  And  he  is  more  whimsical  and  original 
as  an  appreciator." 

It  is  evident  that  Mr.  Morley  has  tried  to  leaven  senti 
ment  with  humor;  and,  latterly,  with  that  touch  of  satire 
that  is  his  alter  ego.  He  says,  with  a  sort  of  rueful  con 
fusion,  that  the  critic  who  described  him  as  an  "affectionate 
scorpion,"  came  close  to  the  truth.  For  indeed  some  of  his 
verses  do  carry  an  ironical  sting — for  instance  the  pseudo 
"Translations  from  the  Chinese"  (his  only  excursion  into 
free  verse),  shining  chips  of  satire,  wistfulness  and  beauty, 
flicked  out  of  the  hard  pavements  of  the  city. 

In  1921  Christopher  Morley  came  to  the  parting  of  the 
ways.  He  could  continue  to  dig  into  the  vein  which  he  had 
found  so  rich  and  his  friends  had  found  so  delightful,  or  he 
could  risk  the  popularity  he  had  justly  earned,  by  moving  on 
to  a  place  where  there  was  harder  rock  but  more  precious 


metal.  The  first  meant 
stagnation  the  second, 
growth.  So  there  was 
really  no  choice. 

The  definite  line  be 
tween  the  old  work  and 
the  new — a  line  as  im 
perceptible  and  as  unes- 
capable  as  the  equator — 
is  in  a  short  story  called 
"Referred  to  the  Author" 
published  in  1921  by 
Doubleday,  Page  & 
Company,  in  "Tales  from 
a  Rolltop  Desk."  "An 
admirable  story,"  Mr. 
Edward  O'Brien  said  of  it  in  "The  Best  Short  Stories  for 
1921,"  "which  almost  any  contemporary  of  Mr.  Morley 
would  have  been  glad  to  sign."  The  author  confesses  a  par 
ticular  affection  for  this  story— perhaps  partly  because  none 
of  the  many  magazine  editors  to  whom  it  was  offered  would 
accept  it.  It  goes  deeper  than  any  of  the  earlier  stories,  its 
manner  is  more  polished,  and  it  contains  the  beginning  of 
that  "naive  theology"  which  forms  so  large  a  part  of  his  most 
important  book,  "Where  the  Blue  Begins." 

It  was  the  poet  Morley  who  conceived  this  latter,  the 
story  of  the  dog  Gissing's  search  for  God,  but  the  novelist 
wrote  it  with  the  help  of  the  dramatist  while  the  essayist 
(who  is  the  philosopher  in  the  group)  stood  by  and  embel 
lished  it  with  wisdom  and  humour  (which  is  the  better  part 
of  wisdom).  Yet  when  all  these  had  done  their  best  (and 
they  did)  there  would  have  been  lacking  a  certain  charm  if 
it  had  not  been  for  a  frisky  little  boy,  as  lovable  and  as  ir 
responsible  as  Peter  Pan,  who  tweaked  the  ideas  of  these 
graver  folk  into  caprice  and  fantasy.  The  little  boy,  as  you 


have  already  guessed,  is  Morley  himself,  the  real  Morley, 
as  a  critic  might  say.  And  it  is  he  who  gives  to  the  story 
not  simply  the  charm  of  youth,  but  that  infinitely  greater 
charm  which  belongs  to  childhood  and  which  is  perhaps  (who 
knows?)  really  the  place  "where  the  blue  begins." 


15 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 

THE  EIGHTH  SIN,  Oxford:  B.  H.  Blackweli,   1912. 
(Out  of  print.) 

PARNASSUS  ON  WHEELS,  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co., 

1917. 
SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE,  George  H.  Doran 

Co.,  1917. 

SHANDYGAFF,  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  1918. 
THE  ROCKING  HORSE,  George  H.  Doran  Co.,  1919. 
THE   HAUNTED    BOOKSHOP,    Doubleday,    Page   & 
Co.,  1919. 

IN  THE  SWEET  DRY  AND  DRY,  Boni  and  Liveright, 
1919.  (In  collaboration  with  BART  HALEY,  out  of 
print.) 

MINCE  PIE,  George  H.  Doran  Co.,  1919. 

TRAVELS  IN  PHILADELPHIA,  David  McKay  Co., 
1920. 

KATHLEEN,  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  1920. 
HIDE  AND  SEEK,  George  H.  Doran  Co.,  1920. 
PIPEFULS,  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  1920. 
TALES  FROM  A  ROLLTOP  DESK,  Doubleday,  Page 
&  Co.,  1921. 

PLUM  PUDDING,  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  1921. 
CHIMNEYSMOKE,  George  H.  Doran  Co.,  1921. 
THURSDAY  EVENING    (A  One-Act   Play),   Stewart 
and  Kidd  Co.,  1922. 

TRANSLATIONS  FROM  THE  CHINESE,  George  H. 
Doran  Co.,  1922. 

WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS,  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co., 
1922. 

Continued  on  next  page 


16 


BIBLIOGRAPHY—  (Continued) 


MODERN  ESSAYS  (An  anthology,  selected  and  with  an 

introduction    by   Christopher    Morley)    Harcourt   Brace 

and  Co.,  1921. 
REHEARSAL  (A  One-Act  Play,  included  in  A  Treasury 

of  Plays  for  Women,  edited  by  Frank  Shay,  Little,  Brown 

and  Co.,  1922.) 
THE  STORY  OF  GINGER  CUBES  (A  business  satire, 

published  by  the  New  York  Evening  Post,  1922.) 


I'RINTH)  IN   THE    U.S.A. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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General  Library 

University  of  California 

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